


Dean Smells Expensive

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Blue Balls, Dean wearing women's perfume, First Time, French Kissing, M/M, Over-use of lube, Perfume, Poor Dean, Sam is a Cock Tease, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Sibling Incest, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weather is perfect for driving. They roll out of the parking lot and retrace last night's route out of town. It's overcast, which means there will be no glaring sun through Sam's window. It's warm enough to open the window if he chooses and cool enough to keep it closed if he doesn't. There's no wind to speak of and the weather widget on his phone says no rain either. Sam feels content and at peace with the world, so of course that's when he gets his second whiff of women's perfume.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean Smells Expensive

 

 

Sam pushes off the Impala where he's been leaning, waiting for Dean to check out. Yesterday they'd laid the last of the New England Highwaymen to rest and Dean had tired of driving somewhere around midnight. Sam had offered but there was no rush and Dean had wanted a bed. The motel is somewhere in Ohio. Shaker Heights maybe.

 

Dean hands him a large take-out coffee and something in a paper-bag. It's squishy, double wrapped in a napkin and warm. Knowing Dean it's probably something pork. Sam sniffs as he gets in the car but all he can smell is the coffee and a faint trace of perfume. Whoever packaged up their breakfast must have been wearing a fuckton of the stuff.

 

“If we take route ninety, we can make it to Lafayette for lunch.” Dean guns the engine and settles in for the long haul. “Stop at the Southside Diner?” Sam will drive at some point but not until Dean's shoulders start to get stiff. Dean will happily hog the wheel right into the evening.

 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “The Southside is good.” He's not as big a fan as Dean but he doesn't care as much either. “Gas first,” he reminds Dean, nodding at the dial which is two ticks off empty.

 

The weather is perfect for driving. They roll out of the parking lot and retrace last night's route out of town. It's overcast, which means there will be no glaring sun through Sam's window. It's warm enough to open the window if he chooses and cool enough to keep it closed if he doesn't. There's no wind to speak of and the weather widget on his phone says no rain either. Sam feels content and at peace with the world, so of course that's when he gets his second whiff of women's perfume.

 

 

****

 

 

Sam has been trying to ignore it but it's been an hour and he has to admit defeat. It's a conundrum and Sam is sure that some _sound logical reasoning_ would clear it right up. The problem is that he can only think in circles, inevitably returning to the crux of the matter: Dean is wearing women's perfume.

 

It's so baffling that it simply can't be true. In the past Sam has interpreted dead languages, triumphed over mystic riddles and once out-foxed Lucifer himself but Dean has him stumped. It's possible that someone has spilt perfume on Dean, although unlikely, and Dean would definitely have bitched about it to Sam. It's possible that Dean got up close and personal with a woman who had been wearing way too much perfume, enough to rub off on him, but surely Sam would have heard all about that by now too. Besides, Dean doesn't do that kind of thing anymore and there's been no time for getting up close and personal with anyone. All Dean had time for was fetching breakfast and checking out. He'd barely been gone two minutes.

 

The Gods of Rock are demanding _The Best of The Doors_ today and Dean sings along to Love Me Two Times. Sam sighs and shifts his position. Dean flicks a smile his way.  The scent is faint but unmistakable now that Sam is attuned to it. 

 

The perfume isn't one that Sam recognises, which basically means that it's not Chanel No.5 and neither is it the floral Estée Lauder brand that Jess had preferred. Dean's perfume- No.

 

Sam wipes his mind clear of the mess of thoughts and starts again. 

 

It's like this: Dean, for whatever reason, smells of women's perfume. The perfume is sweet (can a smell be sweet?) There's something darker, something musky hiding beneath the feminine. It's tantalizingly familiar but just out of reach. Sam breathes in deep through his nose to catch the scent because it's addictive and he can't help it. And oh, who is he kidding? He really likes the smell. 

 

It's a seriously expensive scent, no light _eau de toilette_. Sam's had cause to scrutinise women from all walks of life, witnesses and victims both, and he recognises the smell of gentle authority and understated wealth. On Dean it's gorgeous, intoxicating, and Sam's body is confused.

 

Is it possible that Dean has put women's perfume on himself? Has Dean _chosen_ this particular perfume? If so, who would have guessed that Dean would have such excellent taste? And of course, the twelve foot neon question: WHY?

 

If someone had asked Sam, before breakfast, whether he thought Dean could possibly smell any better then he would have either laughed or punched them in the face, depending on who was doing the asking. Privately however, Sam would have answered no. Dean smelled like Heaven. He smelled like home. Dean's smell cannot be improved upon but apparently it can be... adorned. Decorated. _Enhanced_. The perfume sits on Dean's skin like lace panties.

 

Sam doesn't need to be thinking about Dean naked. He definitely doesn't need to be thinking about Dean in women's underwear right now. He shifts minutely, wary of alerting Dean, and tries to channel his mind back to _logic_.

 

Sam read something about biological siblings and smell once, probably something from the New Scientist or similar. He can't remember the details but he thinks siblings aren't supposed to be attracted by scent. He remembers the bit about women preferring the smell of genetically similar males at menstruation and strangers at ovulation. Maybe it's only true for male/female siblings then, or maybe it's not true at all. It has never been true for Sam.

 

Sam's body thinks that it's fifteen again and lying in bed next to Dean with a stiffy that won't subside. Dean would smell of alcohol, cigarettes and cheap perfume. He would be close enough to touch and Sam would lie there imagining all the sex his brother had recently been having. Right now Dean smells expensive and neither of them are pretending to be asleep but Sam's body doesn't care. Sam wishes that he could come up with a reason for the perfume on Dean, a reason other than _Dean choosing to wear it_ , because frankly that's fucking with his mind and a thousand miles is a long way to have blue balls.

 

The smell niggles at Sam, reminding him of its presence. It itches at the walls of his mind. The song playing switches to Riders of the Storm and the darker music suits Sam's rapidly darkening mood.

 

He imagines Dean pressed behind the sweet little receptionist who had checked them in the night before, her skirt shoved up and her panties shoved down, no, _to the side_ as Dean fucks into her, tight against the wall. He lets the pretty female face morph into a pretty male face, and from there it's no stretch at all to switch Dean's partner for a bigger man, switch their positions so that Dean is the one getting pounded against the wall and... Sam forces himself stop. Dean getting fucked by an anonymous trucker might be prime jerk-off material but it doesn't help to explain the perfume.

 

Sam seriously needs to get a grip. He opens his window two inches and concentrates on breathing through his mouth.

 

 

****

 

 

Sam is a Zen Master. The last time he concentrated on his breathing for so long was in yoga classes with Jess, which he will never ever mention to Dean.

 

Dean thwaps him on the arm with the back of a hand. “Close the damn window Sammy,” he says, “I'm freezin' my nuts off here.”

 

Sam keeps very still. Dean, expecting instant compliance, fishes around in the foot-well for another tape. Sam eyes his brother's soft-looking hair, and continues to count breaths. In through the mouth... out through the mouth. He considers faking nausea but it's not a good idea. If Dean thinks he's ill then there will be the whole macho bravado thing to deal with, which is really just Dean's way of covering up his mother-hen routine. Sam doesn't think he can bear to be pampered and cared for right now. He _does_ feel a little dizzy but it's only the usual reaction to Dean's increased proximity.

 

Dean finds the Metallica album he was looking for by touch and switches the music. “ _Sam_ ,” he warns.

 

Sam's got nothing. He closes the window.

 

At first he thinks the perfume has faded but soon catches it, nostrils flaring for the faintest trace. He clenches his jaw.

 

Dean turns the heater on. Sam reaches over and turns it off.

 

“Dude!” Dean says turning it on again, “I'm cold okay? Someone's had the fuckin' window open for hours like it's July.”

 

Sam scowls. The heat does feel nice filtering through his trouser legs.

 

Dean sees the scowl and relents. “Just let me warm up yeah? Just a few minutes and then I'll turn it off. Alright?”

 

“Yeah, no. It's fine.” Sam says and looks out of his window. He knows what's going to happen and he's just waiting for it.

 

A minute passes, two minutes, and then sure enough, heartbeat by heartbeat, as the car gets warmer and Dean gets warmer, the smell of Dean's perfume creeps across to Sam, wraps itself around him and settles in his lap. It hasn't faded at all. Instead it seems to have undergone some elaborate fusion with Dean's natural scent and morphed into something specifically designed to send Sam into a frenzy. It makes him wants to bite something. He wishes they were at the bunker because he wants to jerk off in the dark of his room. He wants to jerk off really _hard_.

 

Dean's going to get _hot_. He's going to get so fucking hot and he's going to _smell_ Sam to death and Sam is going to die coming in his pants.

 

He imagines peeling off Dean's layers and wadding them up under his head for a pillow. He imagines Dean driving naked from the waist up. Sam wants to turn off the heating and watch Dean's skin break out in gooseflesh across his exposed arms and shoulders. He imagines Dean's nipples pebbling with the cold and how glorious it would be to bury his face in Dean's scent right now.

He bites at the soft inside of his lip.

 

The thing that's not adding up about all this is that Dean hasn't mentioned the perfume. Accidental or intentional, either way there should be some hint that Dean _knows._ Dean's sense of smell is just as keen as Sam's own and he doesn't seem to have a cold. If Dean is wearing the perfume by choice (and God help Sam if he is because he might do it again) then he should be acting all guilty and sneaking glances at Sam to assess his reaction. As far as Sam can tell, using his very best skills of (somewhat impaired) objectivity, Dean is utterly oblivious. It's confounding.

 

A new fantasy plays in Sam's imagination: Dean holding a great big atomiser made of crystal with pink silk tassels, pumping out a mist of perfume and then duck-stepping into it. This version of Dean has Kohl-darkened eyes and he's wearing _lipstick_. And then he's wearing women's underwear again. Sam's hands come up to cover his eyes and he digs in with the heels of his palms. The perfume smell seems to have flipped a switch in his brain and his mind is taking him for a run-away tour entitled 'Crazy New Ways to Imagine Your Brother'. As if Sam didn't have too many ways already.

 

It's more than the scent that's kicking Sam's ass though, and it's more than the persistent fantasies about Dean in lacy underwear: it's the idea that Dean might want to feminize _himself_ , in any way, that's turning Sam on like crazy, like nothing else ever has. It makes him want to hold Dean down, bury his face in his neck and aggressively breathe him in.

 

“What-cha thinkin' Sammy?”

 

Sam startles internally (he hopes it's only internally) and says, “Hmmm?” to buy time. The Dean in his mind's eye is upending a large glass bottle of perfume against his wrist and dabbing it delicately at the pulse points on either side of his throat. Sam false-coughs and uses the movement to shift forwards slightly in his seat.

 

“We in Indiana yet?” he asks, praying that Dean will let the it slide. “I'm starving.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean brightens all the way up. “Twenty minutes, okay? You know what I'm having?” he asks, eyes dancing at the prospect of the Southside Special and home made pie, “Southside Special and home made pie!” Sam's stalwart brother, always interpreting the world through food. The exaggerated lip-smacking makes Sam want to laugh as much as it makes him want to cry. 

 

 

****

 

 

Lunch is okay. The service is too fast. Dean eats too quickly and Sam dawdles in the men's room, considers jerking off but it's not private enough. They're back at the car much to soon. The prospect of eight more hours in perfumed torment is so very far from okay.

 

Sam goes to the trunk, changes his outer shirt for something to do, just to delay the inevitable. He hopes that the smell of diner food has seeped in and done something towards neutralising the perfume but when he gets back into the car the perfume is fresh and strong and very obviously newly applied.

 

Dean gets them half a mile from the diner before Sam cracks. “ _Jesus fucking Christ_ ,” he grinds out, clenching his fists on his thighs.

 

“What?!” Dean swerves the car a little and an SUV coming the opposite way honks its horn at them. “Sam what? What's wrong?” he asks, giving the SUV driver the finger through the rear windshield.

 

“Can we stop?” Sam begs, “Get another room? Drive back tomorrow?”

 

Dean pulls over, calmly applies the handbrake and turns fully to face Sam. “Okay Sam,” he says. “What the fuck is going on?”

 

Fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck. “Dean, are you wearing perfume?” It's late in the day to be making this particular observation but Sam is totally going to claim that it's making him feel ill.

 

“It's not perfume _Sam_.” Dean sounds aggrieved. He gropes behind the seat for his duffel and pulls out a large red bottle of perfume that proclaims 'Dolce  & Gabbanna, The One'. “Someone left it in the bathroom at the motel,” Dean says. “I _know_ it's for men, the commercial has that guy in it from Edtv.”

 

“Woody Harrelson?”

 

“Matthew McConaughey,” Dean corrects, adding, “He's kind of a giant,” and then looks briefly sheepish. It's distracting.

 

There's silence. Sam tries to feel the relief he knows he should be feeling.

 

“You don't like it?”

 

“Dean,” Sam sighs. He takes the offending bottle from Dean and points at the underside. “You see here where it says _pour femme_?”

 

“Oh.” Dean colours up.

 

Sam has a role in this scenario. It is his God-ordained _duty_ to take Dean's embarrassment and run with it,  milk it for everything it's worth. He just can't do it.

 

There's a very tense silence.

 

“I kind of liked it,” Dean confesses.

 

Rain begins to tap lightly on the roof. Stupid weather widget. Sam closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath through his nose and groans, “Me too.”

 

“Oh,” Dean says again, and then, “ _Oh._ ”

 

Sam keeps his eyes closed for as long as he can. When he has to look, Dean is watching him with a small smile. It broadens.

 

 

****

 

 

Their second night is spent in a three-star chain hotel, the closest they could find. Sam backs Dean up against the door as soon as it closes and does what he's wanted to do all day: he presses his face into Dean's neck and breathes him in. The perfume smell is still there but surprisingly mild. He licks at the skin, expecting the tang of chemicals, but only tastes Dean, pleasing and perfect.

 

Dean wears so many layers but Sam is going to strip him of all of them. He grips Dean's wrists when he makes a move to help, undoing Dean's shirt one-handed until he's sure that Dean has got the message. They stumble to the bed, kissing clumsily, wetly, and Sam continues to strip him. Dean allows it, huffing and humming softly whenever Sam drops unexpected kisses to newly exposed flesh.

 

Sam can't stop touching, now that he's finally allowed to. He has to touch Dean everywhere, urgently, with his hands and his mouth, both at once. Dean's cock stands proud of his belly, wet at the tip and Sam becomes fixated. He breathes in the musk at the base, insanely masculine and yet somehow still comforting and familiar and then he takes Dean's cock into his mouth, drooling because he's so hungry for it.

 

Dean doesn't last long at all. He digs his fingers into Sam's shoulders and cries out as he comes, Sam swallowing down everything he has to offer. When he's done he lies beneath Sam, boneless, looking up through half-hooded eyes as Sam kneels over him and jerks himself, every bit as rough as he promised himself he would be. He comes hard and fast over Dean's stomach and spent cock, grunting with the intensity of the orgasm, fuelled by Dean's lazy regard.

 

“Cm'ere Pepé Le Pew,” Dean says finally, pulling Sam down into his side so that he's half sprawled over Dean, the way they slept as kids. He blows gently into Sam's hair. 

 

Sam bites Dean's pectoral and then smiles into the wet skin. There's a lot of Dean's body that is still waiting to be tasted. And they're in no hurry to get back.

 

 


	2. Pour Homme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was supposed to be one more chapter of straight-up smut but no. I swear to God I'll get there in the end. It's just going to take me a while to get warmed up okay?

 

 

Dean wakes up alone, and it's probably just as well. Falling asleep with Sam in the afterglow had been awesome but waking up in the same bed? Yeah. It's a bit soon. It would have been awkward.

 

It has been years, maybe decades, since Dean has slept so long or so deeply. He gets up, stretches and checks through the window for Baby. She's parked crooked but still there, gleaming in the early morning half-light.  

 

Sam's probably cooling his heels in a coffee queue and having some kind of freak out. Dean imagines that Sam will be having a moral dilemma over the incest thing and battling with guilt. Dean still feels guilty about a lot of things but not this, not anymore. It's incurable, as much a part of him as a limb but way harder to amputate. He isn't sure how long Sam has wanted this or how much thought he's given it; hell, it might have been triggered by the perfume for all Dean knows. Sam probably isn't having a _major_ freak out though. Major freak outs are reserved for Biblical plagues and actual death these days.

 

If it's all a Djinn-induced fantasy then this time Dean's staying. Yesterday was _significant_. What happened between them yesterday deserves careful consideration and thorough recollection. Dean takes stock of himself while he takes a piss. He feels really good. His body is relaxed and his brain is pumping out dopamine like it's marinating in chocolate. He shakes himself off, glad that Sam's not here to witness the unrelenting goofiest-grin-of-all-time plastered all over his face.  

 

The sheets are still warm when Dean slips back between them into _their_ bed, and he feels like a thief stealing time alone to enjoy the high quality cotton against his skin, much better than the ratty linens in their usual haunts. His morning wood is easily revitalised in the comfort of his palm. In fact, it's downright perky, twitching with the joy of being alive. It is a beautiful morning. The only thing missing is a chorus of Disney creatures on the window sill.

 

As soon as Sam gets back to the room Dean is going to lure him back to bed. Sam might be feeling a bit skittish this morning but Dean can still feel his brother's hands, grabby and needy and _everywhere_ , so he reckons it won't take much. Besides, they need to get right back to touching again as soon as possible. They should definitely not be allowing time for awkwardness to settle in because that will lead to uncomfortable things like _talking about it_ and _setting boundaries_ , neither of which Dean wants any part of.

 

It's possible that Sam has needed Dean this way for a while. Dean has been very firm with himself about never hoping for any kind of reciprocation, so it's possible that he's been wilfully blind. He really doesn't know, and it niggles because he's usually so attuned to Sam's needs. Maybe he'll ask Sam in the lull between orgasms, maybe not. Whatever. Being there for Sam is Dean's raison d'etre and now that he does know he can be there for Sam in every way. Better than pie. Better than the Winged Dicks' version of heaven.

 

When Sam had gone down on him yesterday it had been greedy and sloppy, like Dean's dick was made of candy and Sam could devour it, along with all the rest of him, and still be hungry for more. It had made Dean feel wildly out of control for the short time it lasted, before his body hastily declared game over. He wants to do that again – oh boy, does he ever – and he wants to go down on Sam too, although he's never done that with a guy before. He doesn't know if Sam has. He _suspects_ that Sam has. It had been different from the blow jobs he's accustomed to, less finesse and more enthusiasm, but that might just be a guy thing. It had damn near blown the top of Dean's head off.

 

Dean almost kind of wants Sam to have experienced other men. It would mean that he swings both ways in the normal, healthy way that some people do. The only man Dean has ever wanted is Sam. He knows it's fucked up and he's still holding out hope that Sam isn't quite as twisted as he is.

 

He strokes himself lazily, cups his balls and tries to ignore the hot angry feeling he gets from imagining Sam with another man. It's no good. If any other man has ever laid a finger on Sam, or ever tries to, then Dean will kill him dead. They belong to each other, only need each other, and Sam's in this with him now, deep as Dean ever was. Silently admitting it eases the jealousy twisting his insides. He knows it's fucked up but he also knows that he'd die for it, for _them._ Good and evil and everyone else can go to Hell.  

 

Dean's balls tighten and he feels the urgent drag of orgasm within easy reach, belatedly realising that his hand has fallen into the familiar rhythm without his permission. He forces himself to go slow. It would be so sweet and easy to get off right now to thoughts of Sam. He'd have no problem being up for round two in a half hour or so. If anything it would take the edge off, give him some sorely needed stamina for their next round.

 

Then again, if Sam came back sooner he would know what a horn dog Dean had been, not able to wait even twenty minutes. Or Sam might be back at any moment and catch Dean in the act. Dean groans and squeezes the base of his dick, the question of whether or not to come almost a done deal.  Sam would smirk at him, then he'd get that dark look and do his looming thing over the bed, pin Dean's wrists and... _fuck fuck fuck_.

 

Dean forces himself to stop and puts both hands on top of the covers to resist the temptation. He needs to wait. Getting off while Sam's out would just be rude. Sam really needs to hurry back though because Dean wants those hands all over him again and as soon as possible, more than anything else in the world.  

 

Sam, to Dean’s surprise, had been startlingly male. The absence of breasts had somehow made it more intimate, both of their heartbeats pressed together and booming in Dean’s chest cavity like thunder. Sam was so big. Big and strong and _hairy_. He had smelled very male too, which really shouldn't have blindsided Dean but it had anyway. There had been hard cuts of muscle and bone where there were usually soft curves and Dean hadn’t been able to help seeking them out repeatedly with his fingers. The play of muscles in Sam’s tan forearms had been fascinating and the thick course hair around his dick, musky with the scent of sex so like Dean's own, had been alarming and yet weirdly hot. There had been chest hair against Dean’s tender skin and then stubble on his inner thigh, tiny erect nipples brushing Dean’s leg as Sam sucked him off.

 

It had all happened less than a day ago but Dean's world has been shaken to the core. He can't remember why he ever wanted to be a ladies' man, can't imagine wanting anything different now. It might be worrying if not for the thick feeling that has settled in his limbs, weighing him down on the bed and making his thoughts slow and sweet like molasses.

 

There is one aspect of man on man sex that makes Dean's guts flutter with worry and it’s the question of butt sex. Sam is going to want it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sooner rather than later. And although there's a good chance that Sam will let Dean have a go on the giving end of the equation, Sam is definitely going to want to fuck Dean. It’s a sure thing. Dean’s chances of remaining an ass virgin wilted away with Sam’s first hungry look and died quietly somewhere between the manhandling and the part where Sam had taken possession of him with his mouth.

 

Dean has never been able to consistently deny Sam anything but he’s surprised to find that he doesn't really want to deny Sam this. The idea of having Sam’s dick buried inside him to the hilt is both insanely hot and kind of terrifying. Dean wants it. He slots his hands under his ass to cup and spread both cheeks experimentally and his phone springs to life next to his head, playing the music from Friday 13th and buzzing itself sideways.

 

Dean startles badly and then grins because Sam can’t see him. Sam one, Dean nil. So Sam got lucky with his timing. Dean will get him back.

 

“Dean.” Sam sounds fine. Dean can put the freak out theory to bed just from the way Sam says his name. He sounds better than fine actually, there's a smile in his voice.

 

Dean smiles back. “Hey Sammy.” He tries to make his voice normal and hide the fact that he has been lying steeped in his own arousal while he waits for his brother to come back and claim him, in the absolutely physical sense.

 

“Come and meet me okay. There's this place called Einstein's on Northwestern Avenue that opens at six.”

 

“What? No! Come back to the room, Sam. S'too fuckin' early.”

 

“C'mon Dean, let's get on the road. Don't you wanna drive? Get home early?”

 

That makes Dean pause. Sam has never called the bunker home before. Dean knows that he's being played but he can't stop the squeezing ache he feels in his chest. Their home, his and Sam's _together_. “Yeah, okay. Fifteen minutes,” he says.

 

 


	3. Fragrant Misuse of Chevrolets

 

 

Sam is all badly concealed smiles at breakfast. He doesn't even bitch when Dean has eggs, bacon _and_ cheese in his sandwich. It makes Dean feel giddy and he goofs off, making faces and doing voices. Sam plays along, eye-rolling and acting all I'm-the-mature-one.

 

Dean lets himself notice the little things he's been ignoring, things that Sam is now letting him see: The way Sam gets distracted by Dean's lips but still manages to finish Dean's sentences with a smug look; The way their legs press together under the table, nothing casual about it. There's a new unspoken honesty between them and Dean is living in a dream.

 

Dean tries to think of a time when he was happier and can't. He lobs a ketchup sachet and scores a direct hit right between Sam's eyes. Sam scowls and retaliates. It lands in Dean's coffee with a _plop_. Mischief dances in Sam's eyes. Best breakfast ever.

  
  


****

  
  


They're a mile or so out of town when Dean glances over and catches Sam scenting the air. He probably thinks he's doing it stealthily but it's hilariously obvious to Dean. Sam's nostrils are flared and his head is tilted up like a damned bloodhound. He's angled ever so slightly towards Dean and there's an adorable look of concentration on his face.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing and silently schemes. He hasn't really given the perfume thing enough thought. Another hour or two in bed and he would have gotten around to it.

He lets Zeppelin play gently while he mulls it over.

They turn off State Road 28 and Dean says, “So you like me in perfume then?” because Sam involved himself in Dean's fantasies yesterday. Sam's opinion, previously imaginary, has been promoted right through _essential_ and all the way to _the only thing that matters to Dean_.

“ _Deeean._ ” Sam pulls his palms down his face, tugging the skin and doing nothing to dispel the bloodhound look.

“Or you just really liked the perfume?”

There's silence for a good minute and a half, and Dean is moving on with the fantasy, getting ahead of himself and forgetting that he'd spoken when Sam says, “Um. Both?”

Kinky. “You got a thing for guys in women's underwear too?” And okay, that came out a bit fast. Maybe he should have given Sam some time to catch up first.

“Jesus Dean.” Sam turns away but Dean knows what that's about. Huh. He can still see the high part of Sam's left cheek and the blush progressing into the roots of his hair.

“Want me to get all dressed up for you Sam?”

“Really Dean? Now? Really?”

Dean ignores Sam's look of incredulity and picks out the bits of Sam's expression he wants to think about: his ruddy cheeks and slightly parted lips; the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. “Well not right now,” Dean amends, “'Cause I don't have any women's underwear with me. But we could always stop in Danville, go shopping.”

Sam turns away again and Dean notices that his right leg is jigging up and down against the door.

“High heels?” Dean asks, conversationally.

Sam's leg bounces faster.

“Stockings?”

Sam looks to the ceiling and folds his hands over his crotch.

“Panties?”

Sam scrunches his eyes closed for a moment and then says, “Fine.” He sits taller in his seat and stills his jumping leg. Dean notices that he doesn't move his hands from his lap though. “I might have a... a _thing._ For gender bending,” Sam confesses. “Where you're concerned,” he adds.

“Oh yeah?” Dean prompts. He's sporting his own hard-on now but he's not about to acknowledge it by shifting around. “You mean you wanna get me all decked out in satin and lace, right? Get me all prettied up and then get your hands all over me? Mess me up good and proper. That's what you mean, right Sam?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sam breathes, “No! I mean it's.. this...” he gestures between them with his hand, “It's not just some underwear thing.”

Sam looks earnestly embarrassed, which Dean wouldn't have thought possible before but if anyone can pull off a look like that then it's his Sammy. “I know,” he says quietly, letting reassurance slip into his voice and smile for a moment.

Sam relaxes back into his seat, and really, he ought to know better. A good soldier never lets his guard down.

“I shaved my legs once,” Dean confides. “Had to shave a patch near my ankle for stitches and just kept going. Wanted to see what it was like.” He had been hunting alone at that point, hadn't expected to see Dad for weeks. “Shaved all the way up my thighs, then I thought what the hell, y'know? And kept going.”

Dean hears Sam suck air in through those sensitive nostrils of his but he thinks this time it's involuntary.

“I shaved _everything,_ ” Dean admits, “Chest hair, underarm hair, pubic hair. Hell, I even shaved my forearms and my happy trail.” He had crouched in the motel bathtub pulling the skin of his sack this way and that and it had taken hours. Shaving inside his ass crack had been a bitch of contortion techniques but so worth it afterwards.

“Did-” Sam clears his throat. “Did you like it?” he asks quietly.

“So much,” Dean says in a heartfelt rush, and recalls just how true that was. “My skin was so smooth, Sam, so sensitive. I couldn't stop running my hands over my skin, everywhere.” He chances another look away from the road to give Sam a wide grin. Sam's nostrils are still flaring for some reason. “Mustn't have left that motel room for twenty four hours,” Dean says. “Not even to eat. Think I came about twelve times.”

Sam snorts in disbelief.

“Dude, seriously.” Dean had honestly done nothing but jerk off and snooze for a solid thirty hours, with a few snack breaks for things he already had in his duffel, and lots of water to keep his fluids up. It had also been the time when he discovered that the tip of one wet finger, when wriggled around just inside his asshole, could turn a good orgasm into a mind melting one. It had merited a lot of repeat testing. “I'm telling you man,” Dean says, and now it's his turn to be earnest, “Twelve times. At least. I didn't count.”

“Whatever you say,” Sam says loftily, but he's curling forwards a bit with the heels of his palms pushing down on his crotch, so Dean doesn't mind too much.

“Course, when the hair grew back that wasn't much fun.” Full body stubble had been an interesting experience. It hadn't really bothered him on his legs, arms or chest but the irritation between his legs had been like an attack of fire ants or something. “It itched so bad I couldn't keep my hands offa myself for a whole different reason.” And it's true. He hadn't been able to stop touching, at first to itch but and then to rub, because the itching had felt really good.

Sam shifts and makes a small grunt to show he's still listening.

“Probably came more times while it was growing back.” Dean adds. And Dad had been back by then. Dean had kept sneaking off to restrooms to rub one out and Dad had thought it was a stomach bug. Dean's not going to share that part with Sam though.

Dean spreads his legs a little wider and resettles his foot on the gas peddle to accommodate his dick, hard and heavy against his right thigh. He wants to get a hand down there to adjust himself but he's not going to. Fifteen years have passed and he has learned to keep his hands off himself by now, damnit. And then Dean has a most excellent idea.

“You could do it!” Dean says and laughs aloud when Sam turns on his bitchface. “Not shave yourself,” he explains, “You could shave me!”

It's a great idea. He knows Sam likes having his hands all over Dean's skin. Sam would like him shaved too, Dean just needs to sell the idea a little better.

“I mean, sure it's tricky. Getting 'round my dick and balls took a while and, y'know, _everywhere_ ,” Dean feels his own cheeks heat a little at the suggestion and hurries on, “But it's totally worth it. You could get your big paws all over me again and I'd be silky smooth. Right?”

Sam isn't saying anything. In fact he looks a little pained.

“C'mon Sam, it's a great idea. It was ages ago. I wanna refresh my memory.”

Dean glances to the side to bat his eyelashes at Sam like a cartoon character but he's caught off guard by the hungry look on Sam's face. Dean thought he had memorised the hungry look yesterday but he doesn't remember it being quite so intense.

“You need to stop driving now Dean,” Sam says and Dean isn't fooled for a moment by the calm facade. Sam's still pushing at the crotch of his jeans.

Dean smirks. “We're miles from anywhere _Sam_ ,” he retorts. “And I thought you wanted to get home?”

Sam actually growls at him.

He hadn't meant to get Sam so riled up, or at least not this quickly, but Dean isn't one to miss a golden opportunity. “So we covered perfume and underwear,” Dean says. “What about make-up? Some glossy lipstick maybe?” He licks his lips and does some exaggerated pouting whilst keeping his eyes on the road. He scrapes his teeth over his lips to make them look a bit darker and then licks them some more to get them good and wet. Then he licks and scrapes some more because his lips have started to feel tingly and swollen and he kind of likes it.

“Fucking HELL!” Sam explodes. “Pull over Dean. Right the fuck _now_.”

“Temper Sammy,” Dean chastises. Pulling over actually sounds like a great idea because Dean's lips are still all tingly and he has managed to turn himself on as well, to the point where he's going to start getting blue balls soon. But he's having way too much fun to stop now.

“I mean it,” Sam grits out. “Or I'm gonna...”

“Yeah Sam? You're gonna what?” Dean thinks the answer will either be _turn purple_ or _come in my pants_. He mentally high fives himself.

“Or I'm gonna get it out right here.”

And woah, okay. Dean should probably take more care to be outside the glass house before throwing rocks in the future. He gives in to the temptation and shoves a hand down his jeans to get more comfortable and squeeze away some of the stress.

They overtake a Toyota and Dean and Sam both turn to look at the smiling family as they go by.

“You're bluffing,” Dean says.

He glances over at Sam to gauge his reaction, just in case, and sees that he called it right.

Sam was bluffing, it's clear from the rabbit-in-headlights look on his face. The problem is that Sam has now been challenged to follow through. His expression morphs into stubborn-little-brother and he undoes his pants and gets his dick out.

 

 


	4. Scent Down

 

_Give to me sweet sacred bliss_  
 _That mouth was made to suck my kiss_  
  
          - Red Hot Chili Peppers

_Paris is calling_  
 _Falling, we're falling_  
  
          - Debbie Harry

 

 

Dean says, “ _Fuck_ ,” and white knuckles the steering wheel like a lifeline.

 

Sam has his pants shoved down to mid-thigh. His bare ass cheeks squash and clench rhythmically against Baby’s leather as he strokes his dick and Dean might end up being the one to cream his jeans after all. Dean's mouth has gone very dry, which is going to be a problem if he wants to try out the blow job thing. He needs to remember to watch the road.

 

Sam gains momentum, tugs steadily at the middle of his shaft, eyes trained on Dean. Whatever he sees in Dean's reaction causes his confidence to snowball and he starts to put on a show. He slides down in the seat as far as his long legs will allow, and thrusts his hips into each exaggerated stroke. His other hand pushes his shirts up and out of the way, adding Sam's belly to the list of vulnerable body parts exposed to Dean.

 

Dean slows the car. He's still too stubborn to stop but not quite stupid enough to kill them both. He realises that he's following Sam's rhythm, tensing the muscles in his jaw and his taint with each firm pull. Sam's dick is flushed pink and perfectly formed. Dean's mouth floods with saliva. It's like Zeppelin's Levee breaking, and Dean pulls them over, knocks Sam's hands out of the way and puts it to good use.

 

Sam tastes exactly how he smells, with the added tang of come. His dick feels bigger in Dean's mouth than Dean would have expected, and Dean moans a throaty moan at how dirty-hot it is to be stuffed full of his baby brother's dick. He drools and slurps. It's the first blow job he's ever given, so he has a vague idea that he should be taking it easy but has zero intention of actually doing so. People have been telling Dean that his mouth was made for this purpose for years, and Dean had wasted time being _offended_ when he could have been suckling contentedly at Sam all along.

 

Sam moans Dean's name but it happens far away in the land of Upstairs, somewhere Dean doesn't much care about at the moment. Dean is happily Downstairs, in close commune with Sam's dick, which is communicating back in it's own way. It swells and twitches beneath Dean's lips, pulsing out dribbles of precome when Dean gets it just right. He loves the thin silk of Sam's skin gliding over the steely hardness beneath. Sam gets a fist in Dean's hair, and that gets Dean's attention, but Sam isn't trying to pull him off. He's just holding Dean steady and letting him do his thing, so that's okay.

 

It occurs to Dean that Sam might like to have his balls fondled but when he cups a hand over Sam's sack he finds that they've tightened up snug against Sam's body, all the way out of reach. Dean voices his complaint without bothering to pull his mouth off first, which comes out as a deep angry rumble around Sam's dick. Sam cries out and his grip in Dean's hair immediately tightens to painful, which just makes Dean rumble louder, and then his mouth is flooding again, with come this time, and he can't seem to breathe or swallow. There's so much of it, more than Dean ever produces he's sure, and his stomach feels dicey but he swallows every drop, determined not to wuss out.

 

When he's done he looks up and Sam is wide eyed with awe, so he decides it was totally worth it. Next time he'll know that he _can_ do it and it will be that much easier. Dean feels ridiculously smug.

He's familiar with the floppy-limbed state Sam's so obviously in, and it's awesome that it was Dean who made him that way. He grins.

 

Sam shakes himself out of his stupor. He says, “Woah,” softly as he zips himself back up. Dean waits but Sam doesn't offer to return the favour.

 

Dean tries to think of a way of asking, maybe dropping a heavy hint or hell, he could just do it himself. Maybe he should have got himself off while he was blowing Sam? He is, after all, a stranger to the etiquette of gay sex, although Sam's failure to reciprocate does seem kind of rude by any standards.

 

Dean's still thinking about it when Sam says, “Dean?” They contemplate each other for a moment, Sam sitting there patiently looking all fucking loose and mellow. Dean's at a loss for words and doesn't want to admit it so he sighs and pulls them back onto the highway.

 

Further down the road Dean casts a sideways look at Sam. He looks too innocent by far and he might be hiding a smirk.

  


****

  


It's Sam's turn to fetch the Twinkies and pay for gas. While he's gone Dean dabs some perfume from the big red bottle onto his pulse points. He feels a bit weird doing it, now that he knows it's for chicks, but Sam's reaction should be worth it.

 

Sam breathes deep and looks amused but makes no comment.

 

The miles pass, Dean's hard-on swells and ebbs with his thoughts. The Stones give way to AC/DC and all is right with the world again.

 

“So have you ever?”

 

“Have I ever what?”

 

“Worn panties.” Sam still blushes a little when he says it. It's cute.

 

“Nah.” Dean says, and he believes that it's true until the word leaves his lips and then he remembers Rhonda Hurley. “Only once,” he amends. “A long time ago.”

 

There's a silence while Sam digests that.

 

Then... “Dean?”

  
“What now?”

 

“Would you wear them for me?”

 

Dean says, “Christ Sam, I haven't even kissed you,” and _shit_ , that was kind of a girly thing to say. And awkward.

 

It hangs there in the air between them. At least Dean hadn't added 'yet' because that would have made it presumptuous too.

 

What if Sam only wanted blow jobs? Dean thinks about holding Sam in his arms and kissing him and doing all the smoochy things that normal couples do, like watching TV snugged up together and... actually he's not sure what else normal couples do. His experience with Lisa had mostly revolved around parenting Ben. There had been some nice coupley sex but not much snuggling in front of the TV.

 

Even if Sam doesn't want all that, Dean still wants kissing. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he wants it. He wants the intimacy of it, his face against Sam's. His breath mingling with Sam's breath. Tasting Sam on the inside, licking into Sam's mouth, moving their tongues against each other. Dean's one day stubble would mark up Sam's freshly shaven skin. They'd kiss for ages, until Dean's lips got that swollen tingly feeling he likes. Sam's lips are a perfect delicate bow that Dean wants to trace with his tongue. He wants to rough Sam's lips up too, get them all pink so that they sit pretty on his face. Dean has never kissed anyone taller than him before. Sam would hold Dean, wrap him up and Dean could close his eyes and get lost in those arms, no place he'd rather...

 

“Stop the car,” Sam says.

 

“Yeah,” Dean's already doing it. “Yeah, okay.”

 

They stumble out and Sam is around the car lickity split, shoving Dean up against the driver's door and capturing his mouth, easy as you please.

 

Sam's hand guides Dean's head, thumb below his jaw and fingers at the nape of his neck. He nudges and tilts Dean's head, kissing him first one way then the other, bottom lip, top lip and tiny kitten licks which Dean tries to chase when Sam swaps sides again.

 

Dean nudges back, presses into Sam and the kiss settles and deepens so that their tongues slide together and Dean knows nothing but Sam's taste and smell all around him. His eyes just won't stay open, so he gives up trying. They kiss open mouthed, slow and deep, and Dean is giddy from the revelation that Heaven was hiding all this time in his brother's mouth. He was the one to explain French kissing to Sam when they were kids and _oh boy,_ Sam sure has been doing his homework.

 

Noses are for breathing, Dean knows this: he's supposed to be an expert, but oxygen just doesn't seem that important right now. What is important is getting closer to Sam, never losing his mouth, melding their faces together completely if they can, and getting some friction for Dean's poor neglected dick.

 

Sam tries to pin Dean's hands again and Dean puts up a bit of a fight this time because he's not a complete pushover but Sam catches him, one hand over each of Dean's wrists, pinning them to the car, trapping Dean's body to be humped against and manhandled. When he's sure that Dean isn't going anywhere, Sam's hands work their way down, squeezing and stroking and coming to rest on Dean's ass. Dean rolls his eyes and nips at Sam but Sam just grunts and pulls Dean forward by the ass, making him feel unbalanced and short. Then Sam slips his hands down inside the waistband of Dean's jeans, under his shorts, and _kneads_ Dean's ass cheeks as he sucks on Dean's tongue.

 

Dean makes an embarrassing Roadrunner,“ _Meep_ ,” into Sam's mouth and spreads his legs. He doesn't even care. Sam's hands feel so good massaging him. The skin each side of Dean's hole tugs and it feels like Sam is touching him there. Why does it feel so good? Sam's not even touching him there directly. In fact, if Sam keeps on doing that, rubbing himself all over Dean's hard-on and kissing the sense out of him then Dean is almost definitely going to come, no further action required. It's all-consuming, which is why neither of them hear the police cruiser until the officer is out of the car and walking their way.

 

“Fuck,” Sam says, yanking his hands out of Dean's clothes.

 

“Pretty sure it's not an actual felony anymore,” Dean grumbles and they step apart.  
  


****

  


Dean doesn't care that they've only gotten as far as Springfield. He would have liked to be home sooner to further investigate the uses of memory foam, but time is on Dean's side for once in his life. He opens the window when they get out of town and bops along to _Pour Some Sugar on Me_. He sings the chorus, and then sings louder when Sam joins in. If Dean had to choose a Groundhog Day of his own then he'd definitely pick today.

 

“What happened to freezing your nuts off?”

 

“Ah Sammy. Today my nuts are un-fucking-touchable.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Well obviously you're getting an Access All Areas Pass.” Dean gives Sam his best jackass leer. Sam does a terrible job of hiding his smile.

 

The weather _is_ warmer today, sunny and clear. _Everything_ about today is awesome, except for the part where Dean hasn't gotten to come yet but he's planning to fix that real soon. There's a truck stop in a mile or two where they can grab some lunch, maybe find a quiet spot away from the road and its meddlesome traffic cops.

 

“Access _all_ areas?”

 

The Impala grinds along the warning ridges that mean Dean's letting her drift off the road. He rights her, clears his throat and slaps on his best bravado. “Sure baby,” he says, going for Fonzie from Happy Days. He can feel Sam's gaze on him, shrewd and intent, and his ass cheeks clench.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Linden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden) for clearing up the question of French Kissin' in the USA :)  
> And if you haven't read [Linden's stories](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden/works) then you haven't lived. I'm not even kidding.


	5. Too Innoscent by Far

 

 

Sam says that Dean eats too fast. Dean is supposed to eat healthy, drink water, chew more, _blah blah blah_. Sometimes eating fast is useful though, like now, because he can leave Sam munching through his salad like a tortoise and escape to the empty men's room. Dean locks the door behind him.

 

He's just going to do some very quick self-exploration, since Sam has made his intentions abundantly clear. Dean is venturing into unexplored territory and he’s kind of paranoid about embarrassing himself.

 

He has his pants down and one wet finger over his hole when someone taps at the door. Dean freezes, “Yeah, sorry, hang on,” he says, voice pitched too low. _Overcompensating_ , Sam's voice reminds him in his head.

 

It's Sam at the door. Dean hasn't actually done anything to himself but he feels guilty as sin, as though what he had intended to do is written all over his face. Sam hustles him back into the bathroom, re-locks the door and shoves Dean up against it. Dean's beginning to see a door-shoving pattern, not that he's complaining.  

 

Sam plants his face in Dean's neck, pushing and inhaling. Then he claims Dean's mouth and this is only their second kissing session but it’s already an instinctive point of fusion. Dean gets his hands all over the tight curve of Sam's ass because he _can_ , and tugs him in tighter, loving the pressure. Sam worms his hands up under all of Dean's layers. His fingers search out Dean's nipples and he pinches gently and tugs. Dean's nipples are another area of his body that is relatively unexplored. He's beginning to suspect that all these years, when he thought he was some kind of sex god, he's actually been _doing it wrong_.

 

When Sam pushes him away Dean makes a loud noise of protest because he’s really into it and his dick is up and begging _this time, please this time_. Sam holds him against the door with a palm to the chest. Dean should be more annoyed. He should be teaching Sam some manners but his dick is running the show for now and Sam's other hand has come down to trace and squeeze it through the denim.

 

Dean moans and rolls his hips. “So hard for me,” Sam whispers, “So ready to blow.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean reaches for his zipper because Sam's being too _slow_ damnit and he really wants to get off this time. “C'mon Sam.”

 

And Sam backs off. He twirls Dean's keys around his finger. The little bitch must have picked Dean's pocket for them. “I'm driving,” he says, tossing the keys and snatching them back out of the air, and he's _laughing_ at Dean.

 

Dean watches the bathroom door swing shut behind him. Fucking cock tease.

 

Oh it is _on_.

 

 

****

 

 

They drive in relative silence for an hour or so. Sam hums along to whatever music Dean chooses, which is annoying because Sam is supposed to complain.

 

Dean watches the muscles of Sam's forearms out of the corner of his eye as Sam drives. They twitch and shift beneath his rolled up shirt sleeves and Dean itches to touch.

 

Dean considers doing what Sam did: getting his dick out and jerking it right there in the passenger seat. Sam might be persuaded to stop and give him a hand. Or a mouth. Dean adjusts himself and catches Sam's smirk. The problem is that Sam might just keep driving, might just leave Dean to get himself off, and that's not what he wants at all. He needs to talk Sam into it. He did it before.

 

“So what’s with the pinning me down and shoving me up against stuff?” Dean asks. He knows damn well what’s up with Sam’s possessive power trip but he needs to find Sam’s key-stone, the thing that will turn him on enough to stop the car.

 

“Didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” Sam says. He doesn’t even glance at Dean.

 

“We could really go shopping,” Dean suggests.

 

Nothing.

 

“We could really do that, the underwear thing I mean,” he tries.

 

“Oh we _are_ doing that,” Sam says. “Soon as we’re back in Kansas.”

 

Dean scowls at him but he’s learned to pick his battles.

 

“We could just stop for a beer,” Dean says finally, feeling kind of desperate. He doesn’t really mean _beer_ at all. If Sam agrees to take a break then Dean can persuade Sam with his mouth. He’s pretty sure that would work. Actually, there’s a good chance that going down on Sam again would be its own reward because Dean probably wouldn’t make it through a second time without blowing his load.

 

Sam doesn’t dignify the suggestion with a response.

 

Dean smirks. “It’s been a while since we spent some quality time on Baby’s hood, Sammy,” he says, low and dirty.

 

This time Sam does look over at Dean, and he’s amused, sure, one eyebrow raised, but Dean can see that he scored a hit too. Sam so wants to fuck him over the hood of the car. Dean’s life is going to be awesome from now on.

 

“Something you want Dean?”

 

“Fuck, yes, come on Sam.”

 

Sam shark-grins. “Gonna ask nicely?”

 

Dean grits his teeth. Sam can be such a fucking asshole sometimes. “Please? Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top? And little cherries, and dancing fucking fairies? Just give me a hand okay Sam? It'll take like three minutes tops.”

 

Sam adjusts himself in his pants but keeps watching the road. “Maybe I don't want to touch you with my hand,” he says.

 

“Your mouth,” Dean blurts, “Even better.”

 

“Or my mouth.” Sam’s being smug.

 

Dean swallows. His heart seems to have lodged itself in his throat.

 

“Anyone ever touched your ass before Dean?” Sam asks. He doesn't even glance at Dean, just cruises along looking all relaxed. “None of your girls get a little kinky?”

 

“Not...” Dean coughs a little, “Not really.” _Rhonda Hurley!_ his mind screams but that was several lifetimes ago. Dean doesn't even remember the details. He wants to ask Sam the same question but he knows he's not going to like the answer.

 

Dean squirms in his seat. The nerve endings around his asshole are firing off and he's not usually conscious of that part of his body but now it's all he can think about. He shifts and tightens the muscles, which makes his dick twitch, and rocks a little in his seat. He imagines Sam touching him there, pressing his fingers in, and has to squeeze his thighs together. He thinks about how it would feel to have Sam _look_ at him there and the idea makes him flush hot all over.

 

The perfume smell is fucking with Dean. Now that he knows it's for chicks he has to admit that it should have been obvious from the get go. His mind jumps from perfume directly to the underwear fantasy, which is rapidly solidifying. The hottest thing Dean can think of is sitting in Sam's lap wearing pink panties. He would squirm until they were both nice and hard, and then he’d undo Sam’s pants while Sam rubbed a hand all over Dean's damp, satin-wrapped junk, and Sam would reach underneath Dean with the other hand, pulling aside his panties, and...

 

“More comfortable at home. Only six hours, right?” Sam says. Butter wouldn't melt.

 

It’s going to be one thing for Sam to stick a couple of lubed fingers up Dean's ass. Embarrassing, sure, but Dean trusts Sam completely. However. Dean has recently become intimately acquainted with Sam's long, thick and utterly delicious dick. There’s no way it's going to fit inside Dean.

 

He tries to imagine taking it, huffing and red-faced as Sam inches himself inside. Sam would have a clear view of the proceedings, since Dean would be face down with his ass in the air. The idea should be humiliating, and it is, and Dean has some major reservations, but he has seldom experienced this level of prolonged arousal. His thoughts swim with thick sticky pleasure. He’s starting to want it so bad.

 

A better fantasy would be Sam _making_ him take it. Holding him down and forcing Dean to confess: that he loves it; that he’s wanted it from Sam forever. _Fuck, Sam!_ Dean cries out in his little internal fantasy. _Please_ and _harder,_ his fantasy self begs. Dean’s window is steaming up. _Don't stop Sammy, don't ever stop!_

 

“Please stop,” Dean says thickly.  

 

Sam smiles like he's won all the prank wars ever and Dean doesn't even care because they're pulling off the highway.  

 

 


	6. In the Biblical Essence

 

Home is the highway. It was a tough lesson for younger Sam to learn, but he learnt it well. This motel room, same as the others, became theirs the moment the door snicked shut. What they do in here is nobody's business but their own. There are long curtains standing sentinel against life's highway and Sam draws them together, shutting it all out. This little harbour will keep their secrets. It's exactly where they're meant to be.

Sam has been waiting for Dean, one way or another, his whole life: As a breathless teenager when Dean crawled into their shared bed, drunk on beer and new experience. Sleepless, when they were older and Dean went to his own bed at dawn stinking of whiskey and guilt. Sam is a patient man and Dean has always been worth waiting for but if Dean doesn't come out of the bathroom in the next two minutes then Sam is _breaking the door down_.

Ten minutes later Dean emerges, faint pink staining his cheeks, looking bullheaded and avoiding Sam's eyes.

“ _Dean._ ” Sam shifts over to make room. The urge to tease him, to make Dean even pinker, is almost irresistible and maybe Dean sees Sam's struggle because instead of sitting he straddles Sam's lap and pulls Sam's head tight in against Dean's body. Sam is squished; has to breathe through Dean's layers, and Dean's heartbeat thrums against his cheek.

One of Dean's favourite torment-Sam games, when they were younger and their blood had been up after a gruelling session of PT, had been pinning Sam and shoving sweat soaked clothes in his face. Sam had hated it, Dean's t-shirt pushed into his nose and mouth so that any small breath he could take was ninety percent Dean, and he had loved it too, terrified that Dean would see how much. Afterwards, when Dean would let him up, Sam would make the requisite faces and gagging noises, like it had been a truly gross experience and he hadn't totally gotten off on it. And maybe that's how a guy develops a fetish, because the earthy scent of Dean, hot and rich by now from hours of tormented arousal in the car, and still laced with a faint trace of perfume, is so fucking good that Sam wouldn't mind dying here of oxygen deprivation, cradled tight against his brother. Sam could die very happily just so. He moans and shudders against Dean and tries to hold on when Dean pulls away in concern.

Dean shoves him back to get a look at Sam's face but apparently he likes what he finds there (hopefully no actual drool) because he smirks and tilts his head down. 

Sam meets him halfway, finds Dean's lips and licks into his mouth. The first taste of Dean is like the first touch of honey and it makes Sam feel thick with lust. Dean rubs the line of his cock against Sam's belly, hard again, poor Dean, so ready for so long now. It makes Sam's lips tighten into a smile mid-kiss because it's not like he's forgotten about Dean's cock but there's no rush and the truth is that keeping Dean strung out is potently addicting.

The world narrows down to their kissing. External things become surreal and unimportant and it feels suspiciously like Heaven to Sam. It's his new-found poison of choice: the plump slide of Dean's lips and tongue; the scuff-scratch of his stubble. All he wants to do is overdose. Nothing has ever fitted so perfectly as the curve of Dean's skull in Sam's hands. 

He starts to undo Dean's shirt, slowly like a movie love scene, but Dean takes over and efficiently shucks both layers, and his jeans too. He comes back to straddle Sam again so that they can continue their kiss and rediscover the place where they get lost in each other's mouths. Broad landscapes of soft skin are exposed to Sam's touch. He run his hands over Dean's shoulders, his arms and his back, warm and soft, pale from being hidden away beneath clothes.

Sam strips off his own shirt and finds that chest to chest with Dean is even better. The feeling of Dean pressed against him, skin on skin, is overwhelming and Sam has to break their kiss to breathe heavily into Dean's shoulder. He keeps tight hold as Dean works his hips in jerky little thrusts, always so impatient. One of Sam's hands is wrapped around the nape of Dean's neck, and it's maybe a little tighter than necessary but Sam can't help it. He mouths gently at Dean's shoulder and neck, alternately sucking and gently biting, keeping Dean close with the other arm around his waist. It makes Dean moan soft noises of encouragement and bare his throat for more attention. Sam needs to slow himself down. The feeling of Dean's body against his, no barriers, Dean in his arms, it's almost too much. It's the culmination of everything Sam has ever wanted like a tidal wave and for a moment Sam's worried that he's going to cry, but the feeling passes as quickly as it came.

Dean nuzzles down into Sam, laying his head along the ridge of Sam's shoulder, and it's lovely, intimate, until Dean _bites him._ Sam hisses in surprise. It's a reminder to get on with it, and probably intended to hurt, but Sam's cock jumps and twitches. Dean sucks hard at the same spot and Sam knows that Dean thinks he's funny, leaving a hickey where it will be visible above Sam's clothes, but he's surprised to find there's nothing he wants more right now than a huge love bite from Dean. He cups Dean's head, strokes with his thumb and hums encouragement.

Dean leans back and surveys his work with a wry smile but his lips are kiss swollen and his eyes dark with promises. “Gonna need a scarf Sammy,” he says, voice low, just for Sam.

Sam doesn't know how it's possible that Dean is even more beautiful close-up. He takes in every freckle and imperfection: the soft hairs of Dean's lashes and brows, the tiny sharp points of his stubble and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Sam's stupidly in love with his brother. “Not wearing a scarf, jerk,” he says, reaching down and running his index finger along the outline of Dean's cock through cotton, and its Dean's turn to shudder.

The scent of Dean's arousal is strong, now that there's only Dean's underwear between them. Sam breathes in deeply through his nose and squeezes Dean's upper arms with his fingertips. Dean's skin yields beautifully and it makes Sam groan. All of Dean's skin uncovered for Sam, the way it was always meant to be. He wants more, can't get enough, never wants to stop touching Dean.

Dean's thighs are squashed, thick and hairy against his calves where he kneels. Sam scrapes his nails down the lengths of them, prompting a ticklish yelp, and then spans Dean's thighs with his hands. They fit perfectly. Sam applies gentle pressure with his thumbs, testing the waters, and Dean makes a clicking noise in his throat but spreads his thighs a little wider, so Sam turns them and gently guides Dean down to lie on his back on the bed.

Dean doesn't even protest, just raises his hips obediently so that Sam can get his underwear off. Dean's cock slaps up against his belly, wet at the tip and Sam notices the wet patch on his shorts but no longer has the patience to feel smug about it. His own underwear will have a matching patch and he is suddenly preoccupied with the importance of getting free of his own clothes; to be gloriously free and naked with Dean.

Dean immediately starts to touch himself, palming his own cock, lips parting and eyes falling closed in satisfaction. Sam would laugh, if Dean naked laid out and touching himself wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

He tries to pull Dean's hands away but Dean actually bares his teeth and growls, “Fuck no.”

“But-”

Dean glares at him, and Sam sees the insecurity underneath so he relents. He leans over Dean instead, squeezing Dean's shoulders, as though he might hold Dean together. Dean rolls his head, neck cording, but allows the touch. Sam smooths his hands over Dean's chest, pausing to pluck and tease at his nipples, causing Dean's hand to stutter and pause. If Dean won't surrender his cock then he should know that Sam's going to touch everywhere else.

Dean shifts back so that he's fully on the bed and raises his knees, spreading his legs in invitation. Sam feels like the top of his head is going to come off, his eyes fixed on the dark place between Dean's legs. He fumbles and squeezes the base of his own cock, a little longer and straighter than Dean's and just as hard and ready. “ _Touch_ me Sam,” Dean demands, and Sam shakes himself out of his trance.

They had stopped for lube and condoms at a local pharmacy before renting the room, Dean waiting in the passenger seat, looking shifty until Sam had returned with his small brown paper bag of purchases and got them moving again. He fetches the bag now, settles between Dean's spayed legs and breaks the plastic wraparound seal on the bottle of lube. It's cool on his fingers and he hesitates.

“Jesus Sam,” Dean says when Sam still doesn't touch him. He raises his head to glare but his eyes snag on Sam's wet fingertips and he slumps back down with a small pained noise. “Just fucking-”

Sam presses a lube coated finger between Dean's cheeks, and slides it over his hole. A new way to shut Dean up. Sam feels giddy with the power. “Like this?” he asks, adding more lube and running the pads of three fingertips over and around Dean's hole so that he's coated, messy and wet like a girl.

“Yeah,” Dean whispers, pulling at his cock and spreading his legs wider still. His eyes are resolutely closed, which is just as well because otherwise he'd see Sam's smile. “ _Sam..._ ” It's a plea but Sam doesn't want to hurry. The muscles of Dean's right arm tense and flex. Sam runs his fingers over them, down over Dean's hand to add his own pressure for a few strokes. He squeezes Dean's thigh, a silent message to relax and Dean unscrews his eyes and looks at Sam, and that's much better with Dean looking at him. Sam applies the slightest pressure and the tip of his forefinger slips inside, easy as anything. Dean says, “Uh,” and his hand stalls on his cock.

Sam grins at him.

There’s a high pink flush on Dean’s cheeks and his Adam’s apple bobs, but Dean meets Sam’s eyes. “Feels weird,” he says, and then clears his throat, which makes his muscles spasm around Sam’s finger, and Sam’s cock twitch in anticipation.

Dean's body is hot and tight but the slick of the lube makes it easy for Sam to slide his finger deeper, back and forth a few times. “Good weird or bad weird?” he asks, slipping his finger out, coating it with yet more lube and sliding it back in.

“ _Weird_ weird,” Dean says, and then, “Oh fuck,” covering his eyes with the hand not on his cock. The hand on his cock isn't moving anymore, just holding on, and Sam thinks it's oddly endearing. He knows that Dean finds it comforting to hold himself like that, and that he's doing it more for reassurance than pleasure. It’s hot as fuck to watch.

Sam curls his finger but he’s not far enough in yet. Dean clenches around him and hums high in the back of his throat. Sam pushes in a little further and tries again. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Dean says again, in a completely different tone, free arm going wide and hips lifting. He looks so surprised, eyes wide and green. Sam knocks Dean's hand away and takes hold of Dean's cock for himself.

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Dean says, drawing out the 's', and Sam rubs gently at the little mound inside Dean and watches his brother fall apart.

Dean's body takes two fingers without much trouble. There's lube everywhere but Sam doesn't care, just keeps on pumping it out. His own cock hangs hard and heavy between his thighs but he's still in no hurry. Dean's cock thickens and swells whenever Sam wants it to. He squeezes dollop after dollop of pre-come out of Dean, slow and careful not to overstimulate, a little puddle forming on Dean's stomach.

Dean is blissing out, caught in a cycle of almost, almost. Sam can see a little patch of underarm hair below Dean's left arm, darkening with sweat as his body flushes a delicate pink, sheening all over moist. He makes an occasional noise of protest, jerks his hips to tries to get Sam to move faster, but mostly Dean just lies there and takes it.

Sam doesn't know what it is that makes him want to rile Dean, even now. There's something inside him, some younger brother devilry that can't let Dean get away with being passive. Dean has played that part for too long, protecting Sam and putting Sam's needs first. It's not going to happen here. “Could get used to this,” Sam says smugly.

It's enough to bring Dean out of himself. He tries to scowl at Sam but his body is feeling too much pleasure to make it convincing. “M'ready,” Dean says, “C'mon Sam, m'ready.”

“Oh I don't think so.” Sam wrings another drop out of Dean's cock and watches it slide down his shaft to collect messily in his hair. “I'm _proportional._ Need to get you nice and opened up first.”

“Sam,” Dean whines, but Sam just raises his eyebrows. “Fine,” Dean says, and the spark that Sam was looking for is back behind his eyes. Dean lifts his legs so that his feet are off the bed and he's spread even wider. “Fuckin' open me up then,” he growls.

It's good. It would be hilarious if Sam was thinking with his upstairs brain but he isn't, so it's hot instead. Growling is truer to Dean's nature than submission.

Three fingers are a tight fit at first but Sam teases and stretches Dean gently until he's taking them with no trouble. They were raised to a world where this kind of activity is _verboten_ , even if they weren’t blood relatives. Sam imagines the bad voices in Dean’s head over the years: the Roadhouse regulars commenting on his cock-sucking lips, Caleb teasing him for being a ‘pretty boy’, and every trucker since who has leered at Dean’s tight ass. He wonders if Dean's thinking the same thing.

Dean has finally reached an age where he’s no longer a boy by appearance. His height and bulk are imposing, and walking into a dive bar now, in his mid-thirties, Dean commands instant respect and zero pretty boy comments. Not that Dean isn’t pretty any longer, just that nobody is foolish enough to say so out loud.

Sam can see the irony in their timing. Now that Dean looks like the badass he’s always purported to be, he’s on his back with his legs spread for the first time, his little brother’s fingers hot and slick, buried deep inside his ass. There could never be anything more beautiful and forbidden than having Dean like this.

Sam pulls his fingers slowly free and sits back on his heels. They watch each other in silence while Sam slicks his cock with lube, pulling once, twice. It feels so good after all the waiting. Dean watches him, eyes heavy lidded but intensely focussed. Millions of air molecules sizzle between them.

“Do you want...?” Sam asks belatedly, jerking his chin towards the discarded pharmacy bag where the condoms lie unopened. 

“No.”

This is a moment Sam's going to want to remember, Dean splayed out and ready to be fucked for the first time ever. Sam's so ready to do it. Neither of them move. “Put some pillows under your hips,” he says. Everyone knows that helps, and Sam might have researched extensively on the subject.

“What? No,” Dean is holding himself again, his other hand cupping his balls as though Sam might try to take them away. “I'm gonna sleep on those pillows.”

“Oh for... Just do it okay? It's supposed to make things easier.”

Dean rolls his eyes but does as he's asked. _Of course_ , Sam thinks, _Why would anyone want to make their life easier?_ _Jeez._ One day Sam is going to make Dean own it. He's going to tease the truth out of Dean for hours until he's begging to get fucked, until he needs it and is ready to confess to needing it. He pushes Dean's legs up again, off the bed a little so that he's completely exposed, and lines his cock up with Dean's twitching wet hole. It's tense and intimate, and Sam can tell that Dean's walking an emotional knife edge, his face flushed but his expression blank. But that's okay, for now. 

The first shock of Dean's tight heat around Sam's cock-head is insanely good. He pushes further, plenty of lube to ease the way until Dean hitches a breath and whispers, “Wait, wait.” 

Sam holds still, hair hanging down over his eyes. “Shhh,” he soothes, even though it feels like Dean's body is trying to murder his cock. “Open your eyes, c’mon.”

Dean opens his eyes and a single tear escapes down his left temple and into his hair. The fierce look in his eyes though, tells Sam that speaking of it, ever, would be a bad idea. Dean's still cupping himself with both hands so it's hard to tell but Sam thinks his erection is flagging too. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, feeling guilty for not wanting to, despite Dean's discomfort.

“No!” Dean says sharply, “Just...” He looks up at the ceiling and strokes himself firmly, the choke hold that his body has on Sam's cock easing up gradually. “Move a little,” Dean instructs and Sam moves, only tiny slow thrusts but Dean moans and the tightness unclenches all at once. “More,” he says and it's an order. 

Teenaged Sam would have come at the first glimpse of Dean's dark hole. Stanford taught him a little more stamina but even in his twenties Sam would have gone off like a shot at the first breach of Dean's body. He grits his teeth, determined to hold on and make it good for Dean.

Dean wraps his legs around Sam, digging his heels into Sam's back, and maybe Dean is expecting them to go at it with all the passion and urgency of the past twenty four hours. It's actually a reasonable assumption given that there have been _years_ of frustration for both of them, but that's not how this is going to be, not at all.

Sam crowds Dean down, close enough that Dean's hand brushes Sam's belly as he jerks himself and the wet tip of his cock bumps against Sam's stomach. Sam rolls and grinds with his thrusts, finding the best angle for Dean, and Dean makes a noise that could almost be a whimper when he gets it right. He jerks himself in earnest, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration, chasing the orgasm that has been too long coming.

Sam's hips speed up all on their own, despite his best intentions. Dean is so close, Sam can tell, deep pink now and his hand flying on his cock. Dean opens his eyes, and they're so wide and green, struggling to focus close-in on Sam's face, and they're Sam undoing. He cries out, giving in to it and fucking Dean hard and deep.

“C'mon, fuckin'-” Dean says, all his attention shifting to Sam, clenching his body maddeningly, “Do it. C'mon Sammy,” and Sam's coming, fucking load after load into Dean's body until he's wrung out and his arms won't hold him up anymore.

Dean gives him a breath, another, and then pushes him off gently, so that his cock slides from Dean's body. And then Dean's hand is back on his own cock, getting himself off, not expecting Sam to do it, not expecting that Sam would want to do it now. It irks Sam. Dean's cock is angry red and Sam's going to be the one to get him there. He owes Dean the orgasm of his life, _wants_ to give Dean the orgasm of his life. He's proud to find that he can still form coherent thoughts in the wake of the hottest sex he has ever experienced. “Let me Dean,” he says, “Please?”

Dean gives it up, lets Sam take over with a sigh, his eyes roaming lazy and slow over Sam's body.

Now that he has Dean’s attention, Sam is going to start a little exorcism. It's going to be the longest exorcism he has ever performed: it might take the rest of their lives. He jerks Dean steadily and shuffles in closer so that he's kneeling between Dean's legs.“Wish you could see how hot you are like this,” he says, voice sounding fucked out and rough to his own ears.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, inhaling sharply as Sam nudges two fingers back into his sloppy open hole.

“Hottest fucking thing…” Sam curls and reaches with his fingertips, and there it is, “…I’ve ever done.”

“ _S-am_ ,” Dean chokes out, his muscles slack but trembling around Sam’s fingers.

Sam’s aware that he has a silly grin plastered all over his face, which is probably pinker than Dean’s by now. There are trickles of sweat running down Sam’s temples and he tries to rub it away from his eye with his shoulder. He strokes gently over Dean’s sweet spot for a while, loving Dean’s reactions, every pass earning Sam a little more space. His cock twitches and tries futilely to refill. “God Dean,” Sam says, “Lookin’ like this you could turn a Texan Governor.”

Dean huffs a breath, which might have been a laugh, and Sam adds a third finger. Dean starts to make low rumbling moans, every one a tiny victory for Sam.

“Could turn the fuckin’ Pope,” Sam whispers reverently.

Dean's hips move minutely, as though Sam's still fucking him, and Sam can feel Dean giving his body over completely; knows that he can get Dean there now, steadily, encouraging Dean's movements. It's so easy. It's sexy as fuck.

If anyone has spent their life compartmentalising sex and keeping it separate from emotion then it's Dean. Maybe for one last thing... Maybe Sam can reward him, give Dean something in return for this show of trust. “We're lovers Dean,” he says, feeling slightly awed by the revelation himself, so he says it again for emphasis, “We're lovers now.”

Dean looks like Sam slapped him, suddenly right there in the moment with nowhere to hide. “Oh fuck, _fuck!”_ he says, and Sam watches Dean's orgasm tear through his body like a hurricane, back arching off the bed and cock pulsing wetly in Sam's hand. The feeling of Dean's body convulsing around the fingers of Sam's other hand makes Sam wish that he was still balls deep inside, that he had been able to hold on for longer.

_Next time_ , he tells himself,  _Definitely next time_ .

Dean makes wise cracks as they get cleaned up and Sam smiles along. He knows what Dean's doing: slipping into the Dean Sam remembers from their early twenties, the Dean who knew how to make light of random sexual encounters and Sam doesn't want that. When Dean starts to gather his clothes, Sam makes him leave them. He bullies and coaxes until Dean rolls his eyes and huffs but allows himself to be persuaded back to bed.

Sam discovers new ways for them to fit together. His hands keep finding their way back to Dean's ass, grasping and kneading, and the heels of his hands fit themselves into the dimples on Dean's lower back. Dean lets him get away with it.

There's just a small change required in the way Dean thinks of them, from 'Sam and Dean' to 'Sam & Dean', all their new intimacy packed into one little ampersand. Dean's identity is already all caught up in Sam. After an hour or two of thinking things over in the car, Sam reckons that Dean has been wanting this for ages too. It will be easy for Dean to slide into the new way of thinking, with a little guidance from Sam. “C'n still smell your perfume,” he murmurs into Dean's hair.

“Yeah, you love it,” Dean says, and yeah. Sam really does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like the sex scene that just wouldn't happen. Seriously, I tried to write it approximately a zillion times and they _just wouldn't fuck._
> 
> So I made them do it :D
> 
> Sorry if it's pants - I've lost all sense of how it reads...
> 
> ...and speaking of pants, there will be Dean in panties too but in a separate story - I'm so done with this!


End file.
